


hell is the talking type

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, excessive maryland energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 04:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s not like you hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t thought about it. Less than you could’ve, but there’s something to be said for restraint.





	hell is the talking type

**Author's Note:**

> if you know or are associated with anyone in this please for the love of god and my dignity turn around now. this is meant to be fun and secret and stupid and boundary-abiding. thanks!
> 
> okay, now that we have that out of the way: this fic is for (and tailored to the requests of) everyone in the #you-know channel. i truly do love y'all. i never thought i would write and post a salacious reader-insert college au with a niche thirst trap, but here we are! and i ENJOYED it! disclaimer, it is unbeta'd. something had to go.
> 
> this is mostly indulgent and environmentalist, but heed tags anyway. comments are screened in case you want to say something and not have it posted! title is hozier of course. enjoy!

Two Thursdays before the end of summer, there’s nothing and everything to do. Campus is mostly empty, save for the stumbling freshman and sense of impending doom. When you grab your keys and leave your apartment, laughter and reality TV filter in faintly from down the hall. It’s comforting, having a few more people your age mixed in with some sardonic adults. Sure beats dealing with the frat rush crowd on Saturdays.

The keys jingle pleasantly with your steps. You check your phone reflexively after you round the corner. Apparently, someone has texted you twice about going out at ten on a weeknight. It’s a tough sin to forgive, but once you notice the sender –

**2 New Messages**

**Jonah Scott: **we still on for tonight? cause i think i’ve been anti-sexiled

**Jonah Scott: **by which i mean there was a last minute dnd group change and now we have five people coming over, lmao

– it doesn’t seem so bad, really. There’s probably an occupational hazard guide somewhere against texting while going down a staircase, but you’ve never given much notice to that kind of thing.

_Uh, yeah, ofc. You wanna roll a joint, just in case? _

His reply pings back almost immediately.

**anything 4 you. meet you downstairs in 5?**

_Hell yeah._ You’re already halfway down the stairs by the time you send the second text, but it’s not like you don’t have a thousand-dollar technological marvel in your hands to distract yourself with. As Brian would say, capitalism is good, sometimes.

There’s something to be said for college friends who you just know for their company, not for their commitment. Brian is one of those – charming, vastly smart, and endearingly over-the-top in everything from his anxiety to his Mario impression. It works, and has for over a year: you two embark on casual shenanigans with no real sense of purpose other than to have some fucking fun and maybe unravel yourselves in the process.

Finding a dude who’s remotely self aware is a fucking miracle. You’ll take what you can get.

As for his six-three roommate who looks like a porcelain baby-faced version of the Brawny paper towel man, it’s a little bit of a different story.

“Hey,” calls a voice across the tile and tacky carpet. Speak of the devil. You glance up from your phone (like, really up, the lobby armchairs aren’t tall) to find Jonah standing in front of you. He’s in a black polo, hands tucked into the pockets on a noticeably lavender pair of shorts.

“Hey,” you say. “I’m no fashion expert but- Chubbies?”

Jonah shrugs a shoulder. “Been spending too much time on the Bay, I guess.”

You grin, kicking his ankle lightly.“What the fuck ever,” you answer, and it’s hard to decipher the way he looks at you in response, mouth falling open a little bit as he scoffs. “You know where you wanna go?”

He pauses, considering. Shakes one of his feet. “I’ve got good walking shoes, so I’m down for anything.”

“That’s the spirit.”

When you tip your head towards the door, standing up, Jonah follows. The conversation is easy on the way out of the driveway, turning down the street. He reaches into his pocket, passing you the joint and a lighter, and you accept it, taking a few pulls between the chapters of the story you’re telling about your terrifying encounter with salad fanatics in the business district downtown. You pass, and he laughs, and he listens, cheeks going pink at some of your jokes. Relaxed is a good look on him.

At this hour, almost every house in the surrounding stretch of residential neighborhood is dark, the businesses and organizations and mosques and churches at the outskirts of the city dimmed to wash the sidewalks in a soft light. It’s about a half mile to the head of the trail through the park. In the darkness, the trees loom overhead, unperturbed without a breeze to move them.

The two of you venture into the grass and then onto the path. The joint is burning down, thick smoke trailing behind you into the heavy, sweet night air. You snuff it out, half-smoked, and ask him about how he and Brian are doing. He deflects, mumbles “we’re fine, not much going on” again, then gets quiet. The sound of his footsteps seems heightened, like the heaviness of his footfalls can somehow express what he can’t stand to say.

It’s unsurprising, but par for the course. They danced around each other for most of freshman year, when you befriended Brian, then went radio silent for months after whatever happened between them only to become inseparable again. After all that, well. Anyone with eyes can tell that Brian and Jonah are hard to decipher, living out of each other’s pockets with both a remarkable ease and a terse difficulty.

“Sorry to pry,” you offer. When he’s still quiet, you jostle his shoulder. “He was just saying that you’ve been quite the player lately, so I want to make sure everything was good in roommate-land.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jonah says, eye-roll and all. He shoves you back. His body is warm where it presses to yours, but you’re braced for it, know how to hold your ground.

“Sleep deprivation is real.” You walk carefully sideways on the trail, squinting to make out the curve of his cheek in the darkness. “We can’t have anyone getting legally insane now, can we?”

“No,” Jonah answers, then stops abruptly. You pause, facing him. He reaches up to fuck with his hair. “It hasn’t been that many people. We can’t all be self-reliant, okay?”

When you open your mouth to retort, he holds up a hand. “Before you take that as a dig,” he murmurs, stepping forward. This close, you have to tip your chin up to look at him. “Hear me out, and then tell me to fuck off if you need to.”

“Okay?” You stare at him. He inhales, and then, all at once, exhales, leaning in and placing one big hand on your jaw and crushing your lips together like he’ll never get another chance.

The kiss goes from hesitant to desperate quickly. Neither of you are particularly urgent, content to press harder and pull closer instead of going faster, as if you aren’t already intertwining yourselves as much as possible, letting him pull you in by the small of your back. His lips are full and a little dry, and he tastes like citrus and earth and smoke.

It’s not like you hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t thought about it. Less than you could’ve, but there’s something to be said for restraint.

Okay. Pull back. Breathe.

No, fuck that.

“I can’t fucking believe you.” You tackle him down onto the grass, damp against your knees as you catch yourself against the soft earth. “Why were we making this so hard for ourselves?”

He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and you gape at him before he dissolves into laughter. You can’t help but laugh, too. Against the quiet of the neighborhood, the sound is bright and clear. When you look down at him, catching your breath, it’s surprising how easy it is to see him not as Brian’s annoying, sex-chronic roommate, but just – as Jonah.

Huh.

Settling, you redistribute your weight over his hips. He slides his hands down to cup your ass. “Gotta say, this is a good spot.”

There’s a charged energy in the air, a tense thing that could spark if you lit it up. His heart is racing under your fingertips. You look down at him, at the way his forehead shines with sweat in the faint traces of streetlight? Moonlight?

This far out, you’re not sure.

“I’m just surprised you didn’t find it first, dirty bird,” you quip.

His forehead crinkles in answer. All you want to do is lay marks across the shadow under his jawline. “Rude.”

(It doesn’t land. He’s breathless, and when you push your ass back against the crease of his hips, it doesn’t help. There’s something about the whole situation that makes it thrilling in a rare and wonderful way. Maybe being so easily discoverable is part of it. If you left him here, covered in marks, begging for you to stay longer, anyone within earshot would know.)

There isn’t a good answer for that, though, so instead, you run your fingers over his jaw. From what Brian told you, and what you’ve seen, Jonah’s easy. Lots of girls in and out of their room. You can’t say you haven’t been curious. Now, it’s obvious as he moves towards the touch, moving to lick at the pad of your thumb. His eyes flutter shut. You’re so fucking turned on.

“Fuck, Jonah,” you start. It’s hushed. Maybe a little awed. He sucks a little, then pulls off, presses a chaste kiss to your palm. The angle isn’t perfect, with him craning his neck, but the gesture is too cute to ignore. His beard is a little bristly against your skin. Sue being ashamed, you want to know what it feels like in other places, closer to your hole. That’s for another night.

You tangle a hand in his hair, pull him upwards, impatient. Dreamers versus doers, baby. He goes, obedient, but not for long. “Pants off,” he orders, straightforward, and tucks his fingers into your waistband for emphasis. You pull your shorts off with some maneuvering, one leg at a time, and let him follow suit. His cock bobs free, sizable but thick enough that you’re aching with the need to be stretched.

When you straddle him again, you guide one of his hands down to where you’re already wet and open. He presses two thick fingers inside of you, curling them just enough for you to really feel it, and you curve into yourself, shaking slightly. This isn’t going to be as drawn-out as you’d hoped.

Something about new partners always seems to feel frenzied. The whole thing is by no means graceful, but it’s satisfying, sinking down onto his cock bit by bit until you’re fully seated. You exhale a laugh, bunching your fingers against his polo, eyes closed. God. It feels like you’re full to your throat with him.

“Nice,” you grit out, tossing your hair out of your face. It’s easy to pull your hips up before sinking down again, setting your own pace.

There’s no easy rhythm at first, both of you faltering until you meet each other just right, asynchronous sounds falling from your mouths. The insects in the park buzz dully in the background. All you can focus on are his tiny breathless sounds. His chest is broad under your hands, and he squirms when you run a thumb over his nipple, peaked under the fabric.

You wonder, fleetingly, how many ways you can find to pull him apart. How many ways you’d let him destroy you, where anyone could find you, where you’d be on display.

“What would you do if Brian found us like this?” you ask, because you know how to play this game, and neither of you are going to pretend like he doesn’t moan quietly when you pose the question. The humidity is oppressive in that characteristically Southern way, clinging to your skin as you grind your hips down, feel him bump something tender inside you. You fuck down harder to meet his strokes. The sound of slick skin-on-skin is obscene, even with the ambient noise.

“Fuck,” Jonah mumbles, latching his mouth under your ear, and with the sting you feel as he grazes his teeth over your skin, you know it’s going to be an ugly mark tomorrow. “You can’t just ask that,” he groans, and you grab his hair, pull him back before he can worry the bruise any more.

“Can’t I, though?” you ask in a fit of confidence. “Cause I don’t see you doing anything about it either way.”

It’s fun, to rile him up. Even more fun when he sighs heavily, pushing you off him and onto your back on the ground, reorienting himself over you and giving you barely a second to breathe before pushing back into you bluntly. Yeah, his cock is - big. Fuck. “God, you’re insufferable. No wonder you two get along so well.”

“You have a type,” you tease, and he rolls his hips pointedly, moving you upwards a little with the force of it. It’s fun, to fuck like you’re on film, as if his glasses and both of your phones aren’t in an awkward pile an arm’s reach away on the ground. “I’m not offended.”

Jonah pauses for a moment, braced over your body. He frowns. “I wasn’t thinking about him before you mentioned it, actually. Kind of caught up in how hot you are. Not to be shallow,you’re more than your looks, obviously, but. You know. If we’re being honest.”

His face is open and genuine, a little worried. It’s kind of nice to be able to trust that he’s telling the truth. Definitely more than you expected from a weird naturalist hookup with the closest, hottest person in your social circle.

“Okay,” you say, tug him down to kiss you again. “You kinda into it, though?”

“God, of course.” He laughs, then his face softens. “I’m not fucking blind. You’d look good together.”

You hum against his mouth, cant your hips up to take him deeper. He hisses against your mouth. It’s so gratifying, to take this huge, strong boy apart with a little bit of sleuthing about what he’s ashamed to want. The idea of you and Brian together is new, but not unwelcome. Hanging out with him is fun, and it’s not make-or-break if you fuck shit up along the way. Why not just add onto it?

Jonah brings a hand down to where you’re stretched around him. His fingers are calloused against your skin, but his touch is considerate, patient. In your head, Brian sits back, watching, commenting, teasing the both of you about how easy you are for any dash of exhibitonism and having someone’s hands on your body. Then there’s what would happen if Jonah sat back, watching you and Brian bicker in the middle of foreplay, jacking off leisurely as he laughed when someone landed a particularly brutal roast. The whole fantasy is kind of nice, really, sets your teeth buzzing with how comfortable it seems.

(And as for how good he’d look pinned under Jonah like you are right now – well.)

Above you, the sky stretches out, faint blips of stars in the distance before you shut your eyes and press your face into Jonah’s neck. Your breath echoes, muffled, around your ears, and his soft noises join you. You squeeze your thighs around where he’s between your legs, bringing him impossibly closer.

“Your fucking legs,” he mumbles. He’s close. You kind of love that you can already tell, just by virtue of how much sex you’ve heard him having. You squeeze harder, feel him shudder, slow down his strokes until they’re long and deep and he’s cussing under his breath, coming inside you with a quiet whine. “Christ.”

There’s a moment of pause. You listen to his breath start to even out, squirming. If you were any more sensitive right now, you would probably die. “Please,” you manage, and he hastily apologizes, fumbling to kiss you, moving his hand surely back to jack you off again.

Coming to the woods near campus to fuck may not have been the brightest choice, but with the way Jonah’s pressing kisses to your face and cheeks and neck, it doesn’t seem to fucking matter. His everything is big – hands, arms, chest, cock – and the amount of fucked up over it that you are is a little ridiculous.

“Can you–“ you start, moving his hand down to your entrance, taking over for him as he gently pulls his dick out of you, sinks thick fingers inside instead. “Yeah,” you pant out, pull him down with your free hand to press your mouths together. The assist is just right, and before long, your heart is pounding as you’re coming, shuddering, body lit up in neon as you work yourself through the orgasm.

“Dude,” Jonah says, once you’ve gathered your wits. “That was so fucking hot. Thank you.”

You chuckle, letting your head loll back as you grin. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he whispers, holding onto you tightly as you breathe and breathe and breathe, let your back fall into the earth. “You wanna get dressed again and just lay here some more?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “The night is young, we’ve got half a joint left.”

“What a summer,” Jonah deadpans. His forehead sticks to yours, his breath hot across your face.

“Wanna know the best part?” You don’t wait for him to answer, just set your teeth over his pulse, flipping him over onto his back again. “It’s not over yet.”

“Hold on-“ he starts, and you bite down, tasting salt and feeling stubble. He moans weakly as you run your tongue over the patch of his skin between your teeth.

“I thought you were into the whole thing of Brian seeing you fucked up,” you point out, pulling back, and his breath hitches. You might as well send him back to his boy with hickies. Not like either of them would mind. “But we can talk about that later.”

Jonah shivers. “Put your fucking pants back on,” he says. It’s light, but almost predatory. “Before I make it so that you really can’t keep talking.”

“Hm,” you muse, and roll onto the ground next to him, pulling your shorts up if only because you want the next round to be much more indoors, and maybe with three instead of two.


End file.
